Hurt Me, Fuck Me (Just Don't Hate Me)
by loveglowsinthedark
Summary: Potter is panting moist puffs of air into his face and grinding what is now a full-on erection against Draco's own, glaring at Draco with the same mixture of confusion-exasperation-helpless-raging want that Draco feels for the git, day after day, coursing through his bloodstream, making him feel at once like he's flying and drowning.


Birthday-fic for bixgirl1. Prompt: Insult Kink

[Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes and honestly, it's basically just porn.]

* * *

Draco's stomach flips over with excitement as Potter strolls in, Weasley beside him, gesticulating wildly, both of them deep in conversation. Potter's still sweating from training, briny tracks running down the side of his face, forehead, upper lip and neck glistening with perspiration, the round neck of his grey a-shirt dark and wet with it. Potter runs the back of one hand across his brow, chuckling at something, no doubt, inane as fuck, Weasley is saying, and as his arm lifts, Draco can see the beads of moisture clinging to the wiry black hairs in his armpit.

He sticks a leg out as Potter walks past.

Stumbling only slightly, Potter catches himself and whips around, lip curling in irritation as he shoves his glasses higher up his sweaty nose and glares at Draco through the fashionable, square frames, green, _green_ eyes practically shooting sparks at him. " _What_ the fuck is your problem, you slimy shit?" he hisses, and Draco's cock gleefully twitches to life in his pants.

"Oh, I'm looking at him," Draco drawls, leaning one shoulder on the cool metal and crossing his arms.

Weasley struts forward, pushing into Draco's personal space and huffing his hotly into his face, one grubby finger stabbing at Draco's sternum. "Listen here, _Malfoy_ -"

"Ugh, Weasley, get away from me with your _sewer_ breath-"

Draco registers the loud crash of skull against steel before he actually registers the pain blooming across the back of his head – Potter still has his arm shoved into his throat, his teeth bared, his nostrils flared. His arm is sweaty too, and is damp against Draco's freshly washed skin, the fine dark hair pressed flat under the salty sheen. Draco can smell the musk of Potter's sweat, a hint of his spicy antiperspirant under it, all thrown together with a hit of peppermint from the Toothflossing Stringmints he'd been sucking on all through training that day.

Draco is fervently grateful for having already showered and changed into free flowing robes because he's now completely and blissfully hard and some part of his brain frets that his erection is tenting his robes and that Potter is seconds away from noticing and then he would _know_ -

"Either stop being a _shit_ ," Potter spits, "or stay the _fuck_ away from us." He releases Draco and pulls back, only very slightly out of breath, the expression on his face more disappointed than angry. "It's been over two years, Malfoy, for _fuck's_ sake."

Weasley snorts. "You've seen what's on his arm, right, Harry? So what if it's been two years?"

Potter turns back to Weasley after another burning, somewhat searching, look at Draco, and the two of them carry on towards the showers, Draco watching the stiff lines of Potter's back.

" _Still_ can't believe they let Death Eater trash like that train for the corps-"

"Ron..."

"Just saying, mate."

Not surprisingly, Draco's erection has waned a bit.

And then Potter's sighed murmur carries over to him, "He's just an arsehole. Leave it."

Well... _that_ helps a bit.

* * *

Draco can't for the life of him pinpoint when exactly this had started.

Maybe it had been sometime around the second week of Auror training, when Potter had politely requested Draco to budge over so he could reach the pot of tea in the break room, and Draco had automatically snubbed him and asked him to take his orphaned arse elsewhere. The tips of Potter's ears had turned red, the slow spread of rage making Draco's skin tingle with anticipation even as regret had bloomed in his chest.

He'd been in the middle of admiring the chiselled edge of Potter's jaw when he'd roughly elbowed Draco aside, grabbed the tea and had informed Draco that he's an arsewipe, before stomping away, leaving the blond pink cheeked, slightly out of breath and, for some utterly bizarre reason, more than a little aroused.

Back then, as he'd watched Potter stalk away, an apology on the tip of Draco's tongue, he'd attributed the racing of his heart and the stirring of his cock to his humiliating, not to mention nugatory, crush on Potter.

But as the weeks wore on, Draco simply couldn't manage to bring himself to be a fucking adult and stop instigating Potter at every available opportunity, causing the other man to aim fluent strings of colourful and increasingly imaginative insults at Draco.

And fuck, but the bastard got Draco going when he did that. Even if it did make something twist in his chest.

Draco doesn't spend much time dwelling on it though; it's not as if he's the only one with a relatively odd kink. He knows for a fact that Pansy can't come until she has thick fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing until her vision blacks out; he's very much aware that Blaise enjoys pulling himself off to elaborate fantasies featuring a pair or several of shapely, well groomed _feet_ ; and Draco has also recently discovered that Theo can't achieve orgasm unless he's got a fucking _pacifier_ in his mouth.

Getting off to the memory of Potter's most recent dose of insults seems positively tame in the face of all _that_.

Though if Draco did choose to dwell, now wouldn't be a very good time.

His wand rolls away noiselessly, wood bouncing across rubber before it comes to a halt several feet away, very much out of reach. Seemingly every inch of him is covered in sweat, his clothes plastered to his skin. His jaw hurts from gritting his teeth so hard and his body _aches_ from having been thrown onto the training mats as many times as it had in the past ten minutes.

Potter is _on top of_ him. He's finally got Draco pinned under him, after several minutes of furious grappling, practicing every move they'd been taught in the past four months of hand-to-hand combat training, and Draco can't _breathe_.

Probably because he's completely winded from the physical exertion, but mostly because Potter is literally _on_ him, and Draco has spent way, _way_ too long picturing this – Potter atop him, the two of them slick and slippery with sweat and completely out of breath – and yet, this is _nothing_ like he's imagined.

Mostly because Draco doesn't have Potter's cock lodged so deep in his arse that he's coughing from it tickling his throat.

But also because Potter is glaring at him, instead of something softer or well...um, sexier, and Potter's grip on his wrists as he _crushes_ them against the floor is kind of hurting Draco, instead of exciting or arousing him.

Draco bares his teeth, thrashing under him before yowling in agony – Potter's got one leg twisted around one of his own and has it bent at an awkward, excruciatingly painful angle, so that Draco has to thump his free foot into the mats repeatedly to fight another scream of pain at the way his left knee is being contorted.

"Use your free leg for a bit of momentum, Malfoy!" Professor Fox barks loudly. "Break his grip and push yourself into a roll."

"Get the fuck off me," Draco hisses instead, twisting his wrists in Potter's grip, bucking his hips uselessly in an attempt to throw him off.

Potter grins then, eyes still gleaming with annoyance, fingers only tightening around his arms. "I don't think that's going to work on someone you're trying to apprehend, Malfoy."

"Fucking get your stupid, scarred face away from me!" Draco grits, rearing up and trying to head-butt Potter in the face.

The man dodges neatly, expressing turning icy and sour as he bends his leg some more, and Draco chokes out a gasp, certain that his knee is going to snap. " _Potter_ -"

"Come on, you worthless motherfucker," Potter grits, teeth flashing pearly white as his smile turns mirthless, a tad cruel. "Fucking slimy snake like you – it shouldn't be so difficult to get yourself out of this, hm?" Then he's pushing Draco's right hand back upon itself, and Draco nearly blacks out. "Not so smug now, are we? Tell me, Malfoy, what exactly is it going to take for you to stop being such an _arsehole_?" He clenches his hands tighter, grinding Draco's bones together.

Saliva collects under his tongue from the pain and yet, that is not what he's focusing on at the moment. Because Potter is _saying_ things and Draco – fuck _everything_ to hell's deepest pit – Draco is starting to get _hard_.

They're surrounded by two dozen or so of their batch mates, their combat and duelling professor is standing _right_ fucking _there_ , snapping instructions at Draco, and Draco's cock is filling out and lengthening because his childhood rival and the hero to millions is hissing insults into Draco's face – while holding him down in a death grip.

Helplessly, Draco twists again, Fox's impatiently shouted tips bouncing right off his ears because all he can hear is the pounding of his own blood as it rushes down south, his cock now hard against his thigh and getting harder still, rising inexorably towards Potter's hip.

"Fuck, _please_ ," Draco whispers to himself, sweat beading down his temple and into his mussed hair, Potter's rough fingers against the thin, sensitive skin of his inner wrists serving in no way helpful to the way the rest of his body is burning with a sudden burst of arousal that has hit him seemingly out of _nowhere_ and doesn't seem inclined to ease out anytime soon.

Unthinkingly, Draco bucks up, using his free foot to kick at Potter's thigh – and freezes. Above him, Potter has stilled too, viridian eyes enormous and round with shock, lips parted, breathing quickening as it dances across Draco's face.

Draco's cock – no, Draco's _erection_ – is lodged firmly against Potter's groin, and Draco wants nothing more than for Potter to maybe twist his neck until it snaps so he doesn't have to live through whatever is about to follow.

"Malfoy!" Fox snarls.

Potter swallows hard, his sweaty-shiny throat bobbing as his hands loosen around Draco's. "Use your-" he murmurs, but his voice cracks and he quickly clears his throat discreetly. "Lift yourself using your free foot and use your knee against my side to throw me off." He speaks so softly that his voice is merely a puff of air against the damp skin of Draco's neck.

Draco shivers, and ridiculously enough, arches under Potter, baring his neck, his breath ragged, gurgling moistly in his throat. He hears a swift, sharp inhale and then Potter says, careful and hesitant, "Malfoy?"

That edge Potter's voice had held just a few minutes ago is now missing; he sounds almost...concerned – and _very_ intrigued.

And it pisses the fuck out of Draco.

With a rumbling growl that he shocks himself with, Draco gears into action. Following Potter's own suggestion, Draco plants his knee sharply into Potter's side, rejoicing in the yelp of pain he gets out of the fucker as he rolls him right over with a dull thud of his fat head hitting the rubber mat, yanking his wrists free long enough to scrabble for Potter's wand, pulling out the length of holly from where it's tucked into the elastic waistband of his track pants and jabbing the tip into his throat. His cock is pressed into Potter's flat, hard belly, and Draco stays carefully hunched over so it stays out of sight.

"Very _delayed_ , but an acceptable counter-manoeuvre, Malfoy," Fox drawls, before clapping his hands together in a single, jarring smack that rings off the walls. "Alright, that's it for today. Get your lazy arses out of here. See you next week."

Draco doesn't register the low rumble of voices as the rest of them start to gather their things, steadily filtering out of the room. Potter is very still beneath him, his hands, palms up, still flat above his head, his eyes intent and curious as he stares up at Draco, seemingly completely unbothered by the fact that he's got his own wand trained at him.

If Draco bends forward just a few more inches, he'd be kissing Potter.

Instead, "I _hate_ you," he spits through clenched teeth.

Potter's mouth quirks up on one side, the look in his eyes making Draco's heart do a somersault. "Clearly," he says, calm and unruffled – and bucks his hips pointedly, nearly sending Draco into a moaning rut.

Draco gasps, cutting of a shudder midway, scrambling off Potter until he's sprawled out on his bum, knees drawn up so his plight remains hidden, eyes wide and breath short. He watches as Potter coolly gets to his feet, and then stops breathing entirely as Potter bends down towards him, another puff of warm breath ghosting over Draco's face as he easily tugs his wand from Draco's hand, his eyes shining with something that terrifies Draco enough that he feels his cock start to go down.

"See you, ferret," Potter murmurs, turning away and strolling up to where Weasley was chugging a bottle of pumpkin juice.

As Draco is leaving a few minutes later, he finds himself glancing around one last time – and Potter's looking right back at him.

* * *

Draco still has a tiny limp the next day, his knee throbbing whenever he shifted his weight to his left side or walked too fast. His hand aches as he makes notes in class, sore after the way Potter had bent it back on itself. His neck and shoulders and arms are knotted and painful from the way he and Potter had heaved and grappled, fighting to throw each other off.

His cock is nearly constantly hard at the memory of it all.

He'd wanked twice in showers after training the previous evening, Potter's hissed insults, the feel of his body pressing Draco down, the weight of it, the hard _heat_ of it fresh in Draco's mind as he'd bitten into one arm, hand braced against the slippery wet tiles, and pulled himself off once, and then again, before dressing and heading back to his flat, exhausted and sore, mind curiously blank as he'd fallen into bed and touched himself again, arching off the bed as he'd pictured Potter atop him, intense and fierce.

He doesn't meet Potter, doesn't go looking for him like he did most days – doesn't seek him out and goad him into giving Draco a raging boner.

But Potter finds Draco, just as Draco is about to head home, cornering him in the deserted stairwell between levels three and four.

"There you are."

He stands there with his hands in his pockets – nobody but _him_ would dare to wear _jeans_ – they're training to be actual _Aurors_ for fuck's sake – his expression completely shuttered, the carefully controlled impassivity sending Draco's pulse racing even as his mind turns sluggish and _stupid_.

"The fuck do _you_ want?" Draco has snapped before he can stop himself – it wouldn't do to push Potter too far past the point where his innate chivalry ran out though. Potter has stayed unnervingly silent about the whole thing and the last thing Draco wants is for people to know he'd gotten hard with Potter attempting to give him multiple fractures in combat training.

"To talk," Potter answers flatly – and then looks down at Draco's crotch. "So..."

Draco feels his face heat startlingly quick. "Oh my god, fuck _off_ , you degenerate!"

Potter grin is predatory and humourless. "Oh, _I'm_ the degenerate?" He steps up to Draco, walking forward until Draco's shoulders hit the wall. "So what was it, actually? D'you get off on getting beat up in front of a bunch of people?"

Draco has raised a fist before he knows it, his elbow hitting the wall as he draws it back, jostling him awkwardly, giving Potter more than enough time to snort derisively, grab Draco by the wrist and twist his arm back, pressing his own clenched fist into his lower back so that Draco's hips are canted outwards.

Potter's groin lands solidly on Draco's and they're both gasping into each other's faces.

"Or was it this? Having your hands held down or something?" Potter's barely whispering now, but Draco still flinches at his words as if they'd been bellowed into his face, bringing his free hand up to shove _hard_ at Potter's chest. "I know some people are into that stuff," Potter adds, panting now as he bats away Draco's hand.

"And what kind of stuff are _you_ into, Potter?" Draco sneers, grabbing a handful of the git's Puddlemere United t-shirt now. "Seem to be awfully well informed. Fucking dickhead. Let me _go_."

Potter twists his wrist and Draco cries out. " _Tell_ me what got you hard yesterday, you worthless _twat_."

Draco gasps again, eyes going wide as he starts to struggle in earnest, feeling the first stirrings between his legs. He lifts one knee, angling it at Potter's crotch, but Potter angles his hips away just in time, and then jams his booted foot atop Draco's, pinning it in place. Draco _howls_ and Potter cups his free hand over his mouth. Clawing at it, Draco can feel the panic rising in his chest just as fast as his cock is rising in his pants.

And then Potter very deliberately grinds against him and Draco's legs nearly give right the fuck out. Bringing his face inches away from his, Potter asks him, "Was it the fact that I was on you, between your legs? My cock right there... Were you thinking about my cock, Malfoy? Is that it, you snotty son of a bitch?" Draco thrashes even harder, blunt nails scrabbling at the back of Potter's hand, hips inadvertently bucking against Potter's.

Potter _groans_ then, lifting his hand off Draco's mouth to grab his hip hard enough that Draco can feel his fingernails through his shirt, digging into the tender flesh there. "Potter, release me at once." Draco almost lets out a hysterical cackle at how pathetic he sounds; he doesn't even _mean_ it anymore and they both know it.

He _can't_ mean it when Potter is panting moist puffs of air into his face, and grinding what is now a full blown erection against Draco's own, glaring at Draco with the same mixture of confusion-exasperation-helpless-raging _want_ that Draco feels for the git, day after day, coursing through his bloodstream like a hit of the most exquisite Pixie Dust galleons can buy, making him feel at once like he's flying and drowning.

He wants to pin Potter down and break his face with his fists; wants to slide his tongue over his lips and fuck his mouth with it; wants to tear his skin open with his bare hands, until he's bleeding onto the floor; and _fuck_ , but he, more than anything, wants to suck his golden cock until Potter's very _soul_ is burnt out by the same fire that has been threatening to turn Draco's insides to ash for what feels like several lifetimes now.

So Draco drops to his knees, ignoring the twinge of pain from his left, half dragging Potter down with him until the idiot has the sense to release Draco's wrist, and smirks up at him.

"What are you-?" Potter breathes, eyes enormous behind his glasses.

"Shut your Halfblood-trap," Draco delights in snarling up at him. "I'm going to suck your Halfblood-cock now," he notifies him flatly, lifting the hem of his t-shirt out of the way, pushing the round, flat button of his jeans back through its hole and yanking down the zipper.

Potter's lip curls and he roughly knocks Draco's hands aside, pushing down his grey and black boxers so that Draco is suddenly staring at Harry Potter's erection.

Engorged a deep red and thick, it curves slightly to the left, long and dripping lightly, and _Merlin_ , Draco's mouth floods with saliva as he stares at it, eyes wide and lips parted. His balls hang heavily underneath, swinging lightly with Potter's movements. The hairs on Potter's thighs are fine and dark, and Draco wants to flatten them onto the golden skin with his tongue.

"Open that privileged, _Pureblood_ mouth, Malfoy," Potter says quietly, one hand coming to rest on the back of Draco's head, fingers winding through the fine blond hair. One thick fingered hand wraps around that cock and then Draco's head is tilting back as he's fed the entirety of it in one long, slick shove.

Drool leaks out the corners of his mouth, dripping off his jaw and down his neck. Potter tastes like soap and salt, his precome is bitter and sharp, and the head of his cock chokes Draco as he thrusts into his throat with a growl, holding his head in place with a handful of hair.

With his other hand, Potter strokes Draco's face. He combs his fringe out of his eyes, brushes his knuckles over Draco's flushed, burning hot cheeks, and with his thumb, he traces Draco's darkened bottom lip, running the calloused pad through the drool and precome, rubbing his mouth where it's distended around his cock.

Draco shuts his streaming eyes, reaches up to grab Potter's hips with both hands...and applies suction.

With a hoarse sound that's only part human, Potter starts to fuck his mouth, left hand tightening in his hair, right hand gentling over his strained, aching jaw, fingers reaching down to stroke Draco's throat over where it bulges around his cock.

"That's it," Potter murmurs quietly, shakily. "Suck it, Malfoy, suck it hard, you tosser. Fuck, you're good at this. You do this often, you piece of shit? Are you just really a cock-hungry whore beneath that snooty, holier-than-thou exterior?" Pulling out until only the glans rests on Draco's tongue, Potter snaps his hips forward, driving down Draco's throat so hard that he's gagging and tearing his nails down Potter's flanks.

Draco's harder than he's ever been in his life but he still glares up at Potter when he jerks away with a sharp yelp of pain, rubbing the raw skin of his sides. When Draco talks, his voice comes out a hoarse crackle. "The she-Weasel probably sucks cock like she doesn't possess a gag reflex, being the penniless _prostitute_ that she is, but _I'd_ probably still vomit all over your heroic cock if you do that again, Potter."

Potter's harsh panting rings around the cramped space. "You reeeally need to learn how not to let that beautiful, _disgusting_ mouth of yours run away with you, Malfoy." His fingers tighten around the handful of hair and Draco winces as a few strands are snapped free. "Open," he orders calmly. Once he's pushed the head back in, Potter smiles a slow, promising smile at him. "Lesson one," he murmurs. "When you're given a choice between sucking cock and bitching, _always_ pick the cock. You're less likely to get murdered in a stairwell, that way."

Draco loses himself in the rhythmic, velvety slide over his tongue, heavy and pulsing. Potter's cock is hot in his mouth, and it _throbs_ , spitting out dribbles of more pungent precome down his throat and over his lips and down his chin. Potter keeps one hand planted in his hair while the other traces the outline of his own cock through Draco's skin every time he pushes into Draco's throat and holds him there for a few seconds too long.

Each time the cockhead pulls out of his throat, Draco seals his lips around the shaft and sucks noisily, hard enough that it leaves Potter whimpering under his breath. His thighs quake as he pulls out only long enough to rub the spongy, dribbling glans over Draco's cheeks and down over his chin, leaving shiny streaks of slick, before easing back in and carrying on fucking his face.

By now, Draco is completely certain that he's mere seconds away from climaxing vigorously in his pants with Potter's cock so deep down his throat that he's lightheaded and swaying on his knees from lack of oxygen.

When Potter comes, Draco opens his eyes and watches him. He watches the way Potter shudders all over, the way his mouth trembles and his eyes squeeze tightly shut; the way that ever-present hostility on his face, reserved just for Draco, vanishes in the wake of his orgasm that Draco gulps down like a shameless slut, and is replaced instead by a look of such deep bliss that Draco feels a ridiculous burst of pride.

He's busy licking around his lips when Potter startles him by swiping a thumb across his cheek, wiping away the salty tracks there. He runs it over Draco's lips and along his jaw and fiddles clumsily with one earlobe.

Then he hauls Draco up by the hair.

"Should have known a mouth that pretty would suck cock like a pro," he murmurs into Draco's cheek, that damn hand finally releasing his hair, sliding slowly down his spine, over where his shirt sticks damply to his sweaty back, and down over the swell of his arse. He grabs a handful of arse, kneading, _squeezing_ , until Draco is hissing into his neck.

"Can I go now?" he rasps at Potter, rutting his clothed erection against Potter's naked, flaccid cock, still damp with his saliva.

"In a minute," Potter replies blandly. And then his other hand descends between Draco's legs, closing around the uncomfortable bulge of his straining cock, and massaging it with a rolling tug.

Draco would tell himself later that night that he'd stood there stiff and proud, jerking only very slightly as Potter had squeezed and pulled him to completion through his clothes. He'd try his darndest best to convince himself that he had absolutely not _clung_ to Potter, hanging on for dear life, one leg wrapped around his hip as he'd had rutted and ground his cock into his hand, whining like a bitch in heat, coming within mere seconds as he'd screamed and moaned and bitten expletives into the crook of Potter's neck.

Draco would then lie there in bed and _tremble_ at the memory of Potter's tongue in his mouth after that; at the way Potter had made tiny, sweet sounds against his lips as Draco had emitted low rumbles that emanated from the very pit of his stomach, and held Potter's head in place with handfuls of his hair and _ravaged_ his mouth until they were both scarlet in the face and gasping for breath at which point Draco had made a quick, completely dazed escape so he could Apparate home, get in the bath and stare at his little rubber dragon for half an hour while wondering if Potter had tasted his own come on Draco's tongue.

* * *

Draco is immensely grateful and violently angry, simultaneously, because it's the weekend.

Although he very much doubts he has it in him to ever face Potter again, he can't stand that he has to wait two whole days before he sees the bastard again. And he can't help but wonder if they would find another stairwell to meet in on Monday.

He doesn't wonder for long. At 11:42PM on Saturday, his front door is nearly razed down by a ham of a fist pounding at it, and when he opens the door and finds Potter standing there, he doesn't even blink before stepping back and letting him enter.

"Cunt."

"Dog-fucker."

They make it all the way to the bedroom, mouths fused together, Potter's boots kicked off, Draco's satin pyjama top torn into two and drifting around somewhere in the hallway, and as Draco drags Potter's jacket off, the black leather fragrant and expensive under his fingers, and shoves him back onto his bed, Potter goes and opens his mouth.

"Malfoy, fuck, _wait_ -" He scrambles up quickly, lips wet with Draco's spit, glasses askew, his white t-shirt snug enough that Draco can see where his nipples have pebbled. He's already hard, his erection a neat little bulge in his worn blue jeans, and his gaze strays over Draco's bare chest before snagging with burning grey, at which point he gulps hard and stammers, "I—I'm sorry."

Draco blinks as he kneels there in front of him, his own cock tenting his pyjama bottoms, wondering whether he should shrug and brush aside whatever the moron is apologising for, or whether he ought to milk Potter's contrition for all its worth and make him suck Draco's cock.

Potter, however, has more to say. "I—The way I behaved-" Potter swallows again, sitting up straighter. "The way I treated you and spoke to you-" Draco's stomach clenches with exasperation. "It was wrong, Malfoy. I—I shouldn't have. Especially because I-"

"Shut your fat Weasley-kissing, tart eating mouth, Potter," Draco spits.

Potter's eyes flash and Draco's heart leaps. But then, "Can you just be quiet for a minute, Malfoy?" He speaks softly, almost beseechingly, and Draco almost can't bear it at all. "I just want to tell you something, okay?"

" _No_!" Draco shouts, face twisted into something far from attractive. "Stop it, stop talking! You're ruining _everything_!" Draco wants to stomp his feet and pound his fists because Potter is such a noble _idiot_.

"Ruining what?!" Potter yells back. "Malfoy, I'm trying to be nice here for _once_ -"

"Exactly! Stop doing that!"

"What are y-?!"

But Draco has launched himself at Potter, crashing into him hard enough to send him slamming back into the pillows with a grunt, their mouths meeting in something resembling a kiss, teeth clacking, tongues jabbing. Without lifting his lips off Potter's, Draco kicks off his pyjamas, wrestles Potter's jeans down his thighs, and lines up their cocks together so he can wrap one hand around them.

Potter's groan is loud and decadent, a rich timbre that has Draco breaking out in gooseflesh as he tears his t-shirt up over his head one-handed and sinks his teeth into his throat, biting away at the taut chords of his neck. He bucks wildly, mindlessly, until Potter grabs his arse and sets up a slow, hedonistic rut, fucking Draco's hand, grinding against Draco's own seeping length.

The headboard is slippery beneath Draco's sweaty hand as he clenches at it, tightening his fist around their cocks and whimpering against one bronze, saliva-shiny nipple. Potter undulates against him like they've done this a thousand times, like they'd not spent their teens despising the very sight of one another, like he'd not almost killed Draco in a girls' bathroom, and like Draco had never looked into his puffy, misshapen face and claimed he didn't know who he was.

Potter kisses him, slow and deep and so _thorough_ that Draco vaguely wonders after a point whether it's Potter's mouth that tastes of beer and over-salted chips or his own. Potter strokes gentle hands through his hair, down his back, over his sides. Potter whispers into Draco's ear that he hasn't been able to stop thinking about him since the stairwell. Potter kisses Draco's face, and he laps at Draco's neck.

Then Potter deftly buries two fingers into Draco's arse until his knuckles are bruising the soft, clenching rim.

Draco promptly loses his grip on their cocks, _screaming_ into the pillow under Potter's head.

"Fuck, you're tight," Potter comments admiringly, twisting the digits through conjured lube, and starting to stroke his prostate with the pads of his fingers.

"Stop it!" Draco sobs, lifting his arse higher.

"Oh, fuck, sorry-" Potter goes to draw his fingers out.

"Don't stop!" Draco bellows into his ear.

"What do you _want_ , you psychotic bastard?!" Potter hollers back, fingers plunging viciously. "Fucking- satanic, shit-brained-"

Draco moans like he's dying, and comes like it too.

He ruts against the flat expanse of firm, honey toned belly and comes all over it, his cock spurting for so long that he has a bizarre moment of wondering if he's actually going to _die_ from it.

But then he floats back down into a puddle of his own semen, blinking stupidly at nothing before Potter heaves him onto his back and knocks his knees wide open.

"Tell me what your deal is." Potter drags jeans off and grasps his jutting cock; his glasses are smudged and crooked, his gaze fixed on Draco's arsehole as he pulls them off and tosses them aside.

"Are you going to fuck me?" Draco slurs, tongue thick and slippery in his mouth.

"Will you have dinner with me sometime?"

"Why?"

"Because I _want_ you despite the fact that you're an arrogant, inbred little cocksucker."

Draco's cock twitches against his thigh and he sighs. "Fuck, yes."

"Yes, you'll go to dinner with me?"

"Put your cock in me."

"Malfoy."

"What?"

"Do you really still hate me?" Potter sits back on his heels and waits, curious and keen.

Draco reaches down and starts to stroke himself. "Not really, no," he confesses, pointing his cock at Potter as he eases the sopping wet foreskin off the sticky head. Potter licks his lips, exhaling in a shudder as he watches Draco's hand, eyes wide and staring like an owl's. "But it gets me really fucking hot when you go off on me with that filthy mouth of yours – _don't_ ask me why." He waits for Potter to call him a freak and leave so he can pull himself off in peace.

Potter, however, lubes up, hoists a long, milky white thigh onto one arm and splits Draco's arse open on his cock.

Draco doesn't scream now because Potter's tongue is already in his mouth again, fucking into it at pace with his cock. His legs are spread out wantonly, _whorishly_ wide, and Potter lunges between them, lifting Draco's arse off the bed as he pounds him loose, his cock smacking into his belly between them, sending strings of precome flying about. Draco clenches around him, fierce and deliberate, and fuck, but he genuinely believes that he can feel every ridge and fold of Potter's cock inside him, fucking through the tightness, carelessly burning its way past any resistance Draco might be stupid enough to put up.

He doesn't seem to be able to control the way his spine bows painfully with every other thrust, back flying up off the bed as his prostate is pummelled. Potter doesn't pause or slow down for a single moment and it's all Draco can do to clutch at him and attempt to stifle his embarrassing, breathless little moans into his hair as he sets about bruising Draco's neck well past the point of Healing Charms, hot mouth ruthlessly staking claim.

His back ripples and swells under Draco's fingers, the skin smooth, _gorgeous_ and gleaming with sweat. Draco traces the marks he's sucked onto Potter's neck with his tongue, digging his nails into his shoulders as Potter lets loose a snarling shout and comes far up inside Draco's bum, continuing to grind into him even as he slumps down, boneless and gasping.

" _Fuck_ , Malfoy," Potter pants into his neck.

"You just did," Draco drawls, his balls quopping with the need to come. "Eat me out," he tells Potter, and lifts his knees up to his shoulders as Potter more than amiably slithers down and obliges.

He can see Potter's come dripping out of his hole before his tongue, in a flash of vivid pink, swipes it up, Potter pushing it into the sloppy hole without bothering to pretend that he's utilising any particular technique or skill. His rim flutters and clenches and Draco fucks that tongue as he comes all over himself, holding Potter's head firmly in place so he can eat Draco right through it, tongue and teeth and lips not ceasing to work his arse further open until Draco groans and pushes him away instead.

When, several minutes later, Potter turns to him and asks, thoughtful and quiet, "Is it specifically me and _my_ filthy mouth, or does just any filthy mouth work for you?" Draco really doesn't want to admit to the truth.

But he does anyway, on a deep sigh, shifting closer and hooking a sweaty, quivering leg over him as he sighs next to Draco. "Just you, Potter. Always, just you."

 **~end~**


End file.
